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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241027">tears of a star</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeconandeggs/pseuds/baeconandeggs'>baeconandeggs</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepybaekkie/pseuds/sleepybaekkie'>sleepybaekkie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>EXO (Band)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Ghosts, Heavy Angst, M/M, Open Ending, Sad, Suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 20:08:33</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,586</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24241027</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeconandeggs/pseuds/baeconandeggs, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepybaekkie/pseuds/sleepybaekkie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Baekhyun lost his muse, he lost his world.</p><p>Somehow, Chanyeol helped him lose even more.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Byun Baekhyun/Park Chanyeol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>64</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>BAE2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>tears of a star</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Prompt:</b> BAE566<br/><span class="small"><b>Disclaimer: baeconandeggs/the mods is/are not the author/s of this story. Authors will be credited and tagged after reveals.</b> The celebrities' names/images are merely borrowed and do not represent who the celebrities are in real life. No offense is intended towards them, their families or friends. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this fictional work. No copyright infringement is intended.</span></p><p> </p><p><b>Author's Note:</b> I can’t believe I actually finished this, wow...I want to thank the mods for being so kind and patient with me when I was being very annoying, and the promoter for this very beautiful prompt that I hope blossomed into a work even half as beautiful as the prompt itself, and of course my precious beta, the love of my life, babyyy thank you so so much for dealing with my insecurities and questions and dumb rambling, I don’t know where I would be without you. To the readers, I’m still not quite sure what it is that I’ve written, but I hope you enjoy it!!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Looking at his most recent works, in contrast to the vivid intensity of just a few months ago, one might have thought Byun Baekhyun was aging, growing somber. The walls were filled with black and white photography, demanding attention, demanding tears, demanding grief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But as time passed, even the depth of his blacks began to fade. The transition from dramatic hues to striking onyx to flat gray was a short one, stunted, too fast. No one knew what went through his head, but everyone had an idea. And ideas are the foundation of beliefs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps a single exhibit, even two or three, would be viewed as an experiment: creative, daring, heartbreaking. But month after month, exhibit after exhibit, the press began to turn away from the listless photos and toward the grief-stricken face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Behind the impassive face, Byun Baekhyun was a broken man.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Byun Baekhyun. Photographer. Artist. Rising star. Artist of the month, photographer of the year.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wove through the crowd at his exhibit, exchanging handshakes and kind words, offering drinks, flashing his bright signature smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’re always hiding that beautiful face behind the camera. Why not try modeling?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waltzed through the room, instinctively turning away at the sight of a camera, helping an elderly woman walk to a chair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>To put it quite simply, the photographer has control. I love my models, but if given the choice, I would rather be the puppeteer than the puppet.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A guard was signaled, gently pulling the camera away to be disposed of. The journalist moved on, angered but powerless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you think of your models as puppets?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He slipped out of sight, into the kitchen, filling a single glass of clear water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>No. I don’t order them around. I give them a concept, an idea, and we work together to create the art.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He drifted through the room, explaining his thoughts, his process, his ingenuity.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Doesn’t that mean your models should be given more credit?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched from a corner as the crowd filtered out, noting the expressions on each individual face while no one saw his.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, actually.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stood in the center of the empty room, holding the glass, staring at the larger-than-life picture in front of him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>So why don’t you give them that credit?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stepped closer, closer, closer until he reached out and touched the canvas.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>They don’t want it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He traced the shape of her body, cloaked and vague, hidden away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why not?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stood on his toes, reaching up with his fingertips, letting them fall across her covered face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m not quite sure. I just listen.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He brought one hand down, slipping it into his pocket, pulling out his ringing phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do you have a muse?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He saw her face there, bright on his phone, contrasting with the cloaked figure in front of him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Yes, I think I do.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tapped the green button, bringing the phone up to his face, her sweet voice filling his ears, filling his thoughts.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Who?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spoke to her, whispering gently, reassuring words, encouraging words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Someone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned away from the photo, to the door, briskly walking out of the exhibit, clutching his phone to his ear all along.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What would you do if you lost your muse?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He exits the building, breaking out into a run, heading into the darkness as he listens to the sirens from the speaker of his phone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I don’t know.</span>
  </em>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Hana. Her name was Hana.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wakes up in near-total darkness, his blinds shut with minimal light filtering in through the gaps. He watches as the light slowly increases, dimly registering the pain in his back. He sold his bed, his couch, his chairs. All for a few more months of rent, a few more months of food. And drinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>A human’s will to survive is pointless.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hana wanted to live.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun pushes off the floor, stumbling around broken glass and spilled vodka. He mindlessly bends back down to pick up the glass, slicing his fingers. He sees the blood drip onto the carpet, staining the carpet on top of the vodka. His fists clench, digging the glass deeper into his palm. The pain brings nothing but satisfaction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pain is necessary. For life and for death.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun drops the bloodied glass and stares at his palm. Slashed, punctured, bleeding all over. Good. He closes his eyes and walks forward, waiting, hoping for the sickening crunch and the pain with every step. It doesn’t come. He reaches the doorway, turning around and observing the shattered glass littering the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Goddamn luck.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun turns back around, walking through the doorway into the kitchen. His mind is not present as he opens the fridge and grabs another bottle with his good hand, muscle memory leading him to take a small sip before walking back. Looking into the room, Baekhyun tosses the nearly full bottle and watches as vodka soaks into the carpet and the bottle rests upon shattered glass.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Luck can’t save you forever.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun smiles as he reaches for the first aid kit. Today is a good day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wakes up in darkness, his blinds shut. There’s a new moon tonight. He shakily rises from the floor, surrounded by broken glass. Glass which he cannot see. He stumbles forward in the dark, hoping once more to feel the pain, to hear the crunch. It never comes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun keeps walking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Pain is feeling. Pain is life. Pain is human. You need pain.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He reaches the wall, feeling his way around until he reaches the doorway to the kitchen. He limps through the room, waving his arms wildly in an attempt to locate furniture. Furniture which was already sold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun locates the door handle, turning it as he pushes hard into the stuck door. It takes a few shoves before it swings open, slamming into the wall and leaving Baekhyun to fall into the hallway.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s drowsy, uncoordinated. The vodka plays a small part, but the majority of the alcohol seeped into the carpet rather than into Baekhyun. The nightmares and lack of sleep are his true pain. He trips and stumbles and feels a sharp sting in his hand. But there’s no blood, only a memory, a ghost of his former pain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>You’ll get the pain you deserve.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun is outside, staring back at his apartment complex with its faded paint, cracked walls, broken windows shining in the starlight. As he turns away, Baekhyun can already hear his landlord grumbling about the dent made in the wall by Baekhyun’s door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>One door is closed, and now none will open.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun staggers along the side of the road, walking into the darkness. The faint light from the stars illuminates his path on a street lined with broken streetlights, shattered glass, busted bottles, baseball bats.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Far ahead, the lights aren’t broken, but they flicker weakly. The road is empty, deserted, devoid of life. Baekhyun walks in the middle of the road, wondering if a car will come and hit him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The pebbles dig into his soles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>There’s only one door now.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun walks toward the lights.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Downtown Seoul is filled with sparkling lights, flickering lights, colorful lights, flashing lights. Baekhyun looks up but he can’t see the stars anymore. The only lights are around him, blinding him but still not bright enough. He trips straight into a crowd, catching sight of a woman’s wide eyes as she looks at his trembling form.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His shirt is torn, jeans as well. The cold fall wind whips his arms with the ferocity of an innocent girl who was unjustly killed, who died alone. Baekhyun sees her standing in front of him, staring down with a cold look, an inhuman face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no escaping the lights. The lights are everywhere, consuming even the colossal stars above, consuming Baekhyun. There’s music playing somewhere, drifting Baekhyun’s way from a nearby market. Over the music, Baekhyun hears the guttural shouts of shop owners desperate for customers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Desperation won’t save them. It won’t save you either.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun lumbers toward the river, clutching the railing as he stares into the rolling water, desperate to escape into its silent, dark depths. Desperate to escape her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He makes his way to the bridge, shoving others out of his way in an attempt to reach it. He reaches the sidewalk, walking a few steps forward before collapsing onto the railing, letting it support his fragile weight.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hears her whisper behind him, feels her touch behind his ear. The wind may whip him and slash him, but it will never be able to mimic the warmth Baekhyun felt for that moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She was back, just for a second, just to wrap her arms around him and protect him from the wind. Just to whisper into his ear.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Do it.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bright lights seem to dim, the noise fades away, and the river calls out to Baekhyun. Despite the lights all around it, it only reflects the stars and the dark blue, nearly black sky. Baekhyun can almost reach it. To reach the river would be to reach the sky.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I’ll finally meet you again.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun leans further over the edge, lifting his trembling leg ever so slightly as he prepares to jump.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hello.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em> said hello.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun whirls around, breaking his own trance. The lights flood back in, the din resuming. His head is on a swivel, turning left and right as he tries to locate the source of the voice in his head. The deep, smooth voice. He needs to find this person and tell them to shut up, tell them to leave him alone. He needs...more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A car across the bridge honks, bringing Baekhyun’s attention to the other side. Between the speeding cars and oversized trucks, past lane after lane of traffic, Baekhyun glimpses a tall shadow, barely there, nearly invisible.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hello?” His voice is a whisper, raw and gravelly from weeks of disuse, but Baekhyun knows the man can hear him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>
    <em>Hey.</em>
  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun needs more. This voice is so soft, soothing, mellifluous. He knows this man must be as pretty as his voice, tall and deep yet soft at the same time. He’s less than a hundred feet away from Baekhyun, but that’s not close enough. Baekhyun needs more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>More.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The traffic seems to stop, frozen for Baekhyun. He can see the man now, more clearly, more solid, but still too. far. away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun steps onto the road.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The lights surround Baekhyun, headlights pointing at him. But before the incoming traffic leaves his blood on the road, strong arms wrap around Baekhyun and pull him back onto the sidewalk, into a deep embrace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man across the bridge is gone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But someone is holding him, strong arms are wrapped around his waist, his back is flush with a sturdy chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“W-Who are you?” Baekhyun’s voice is barely a whisper, scratchy from disuse. Whoever’s holding him doesn’t seem to notice that he spoke, only backing up and pulling him even further away from the road. Baekhyun clears his throat, speaking louder this time. “I said, who are you? Let me go, fuck please just—“</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Relax. My name is Chanyeol.” Even those five short words are mellifluous, each flowing into the next despite the succinct phrasing. Baekhyun could fall asleep listening to this voice, yet it wakes him up at the same time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What is he doing? Why is he letting this stranger who smells like cedar hold him on the sidewalk of the bridge he was about to jump off of? What the fuck is going on? Baekhyun starts to struggle, grabbing Chanyeol’s forearms and attempting to wriggle out of his hold.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But at some point, he brings Chanyeol’s arms in closer instead of pushing them away. He feels strong and warm, smells like a breath of fresh air next to a polluted river. “What the fuck are you doing to me? Please, just leave me, let me die, please, please, please…” His voice fades out, back to a whisper. His head hangs low, his body going limp in Chanyeol’s arms.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s just...tired. So tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol knows. “Hey, you can go home, right? Go back to sleep now, okay? Come back tomorrow. We can talk then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun finds himself nodding along. Yes, sleep. He is exhausted. Why is he here? He should be sleeping, at home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Home?” Where is his home? Baekhyun vaguely remembers shattered glass, but why?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol turns him around slowly, and Baekhyun sees his chiseled face, soft and smooth as his voice. But before he can admire it more, Chanyeol steps away slightly, back into the shadows. “You know the way home, Baekhyun. Go home. Go to sleep.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s right. Baekhyun goes home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The next morning, Baekhyun wakes up in near darkness with his neck aching and back twisted at an odd angle. He seems to have fallen asleep against his door, barely even making it inside the apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What happened?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows he went to the bridge last night, in the center of Seoul, not far from his previous apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But why is he alive?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was someone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Come back tomorrow.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>When Baekhyun arrives at the bridge soon after sunrise, it’s congested with cars heading to work, but the sidewalk is mainly empty aside from a few joggers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The rising sun paints the whole bridge in light, every inch clearly illuminated. Before Baekhyun even steps onto the sidewalk, he knows Chanyeol isn’t there. Why would he even come back here? Maybe Chanyeol was a hallucination, cooked up by Baekhyun’s deteriorating mind as a fail-safe to prevent his much-needed death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s cheeks burn at the thought of walking all the way here at the faint memory of a hallucination and he’s ready to turn around, to run back and hide away in his apartment until he dies of dehydration or maybe just embarrassment on the spot. But he’s compelled to keep walking forward, until he’s standing exactly where he was the night before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The river is still dark and tumultuous, and the cold air rips through Baekhyun’s jacket, chilling his bones, perhaps even colder than the night before.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol is nowhere to be seen, so Baekhyun closes his eyes. Even if there’s no one to hold him, he can take this moment to feel the bite of the wind against his face, to wince at the shrill sounds of early morning traffic and trade, to smell garbage and fumes from the polluted river, to taste the distinct taste of smoke and death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To hurt a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The tears trace an intricate web down his cheeks, slipping like precious gems in a world filled with poverty, disintegrating before they touch the ground. Baekhyun wonders if Hana sees him now, like this. She was one of those gems, too precious for this cruel world, disappearing before she managed to save the filth that is Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Would she want him anymore? She brought him up from the ground, led him to reach for her beauty, high in the sky, the tear of a star. She made him climb buildings to the tallest skyscraper but he could never reach her. And she could never fall to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now he’s back on the ground, tossed about by the wind and unable to rise again. Unable...or unwilling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The only tears he has are his own.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun opens his eyes when he feels the tears drop off his face, staring off into the sunrise. He should leave, now. Should try again. There are more stars in the sky, more tears falling. He should climb. He can climb.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But a pair of warm arms wrap around him, pulling him back once more into a chest and enveloping him in cedar and a fresh breeze. Chanyeol spins him around once more, and as Baekhyun looks through the tears into this mysterious man’s face, he thinks that maybe he would rather have a tree’s leaf than a star’s tear.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They’re walking along the bridge, turning around whenever they reach the end of the sidewalk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first question Baekhyun asks Chanyeol (“Are you real?”) is met with a chuckle and a simple, “Sure.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun still wonders, but surely his mind is incapable of creating such a realistic hallucination, someone so kind, so sweet, so warm, so real. But there’s no other explanation as to why he feels so comfortable, so safe even on the ground, surrounded by trash and filth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol talks about himself, mainly so that Baekhyun doesn’t have to. “I’m a bartender on the other side of town...a lot of people talk to me about their problems, so I guess that’s why I approached you last night. Not that I’m a therapist or anything, I just listen.” He laughs a little, sounding rather nervous about how he approached Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun doesn’t know how to respond, so he smiles and nods and reaches out to gently hold onto Chanyeol’s arm as they approach the place where he was going to…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tells himself he’s holding on to support Chanyeol. A man he met yesterday who managed to capture his eyes and ears with just a few words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What will he capture next?</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol is funny. When he’s done telling Baekhyun about his roommate Jongin’s dumb antics, he moves on and shows him black-and-white pictures of his brother Jongdae’s baby girl. When Baekhyun wonders out loud about the lack of color, Chanyeol gives him a smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s how Jongdae is...he’s a little old-fashioned, I guess. Black-and-white is just his aesthetic.”</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hmm...Why does black-and-white have to be old-fashioned? I personally think it can be a very modern style, especially when it’s as striking as those pictures of your niece, bringing the subject to the front like that. She’s adorable, by the way! I would love to…” Baekhyun trails off as he realizes he wants to meet her so quickly after meeting Chanyeol. The topic seems to make Chanyeol tighten up, leaving them in a moment of awkward silence, the first in quite a long time, before Chanyeol changes the topic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you seem to know a lot about photography, huh? Is it a hobby of yours?” Baekhyun almost laughs at the thought of being an amateur photographer. Almost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead, he gives a small smile. “I’ve had my fair share of exhibitions.” Had, or rather, held.</span>
  <span><br/>
<br/>
</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol seems to understand. “Been to exhibitions or held exhibitions?” There’s a knowing glint in his eyes. Does he know Baekhyun? Surely not, if he isn’t some sort of photography superfan. Photographers aren’t household names. That right belongs to politicians, musicians, actors and...actresses.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s smile grows wider nonetheless. “A little bit of both. You can’t hold your own exhibits if you’ve never been to one.” No, the household name was never Byun Baekhyun. The beloved Hana’s lucky boyfriend, perhaps, but never Byun Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You know,” Chanyeol smiles now, a knowledgeable smirk. “you never told me your name…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know Baekhyun. Maybe Hana, never Baekhyun. “Oh god, I’m sorry I was so distracted by...you. I’m Baekhyun. Byun Baekhyun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol’s smirk stretches into a wide grin, and he bites his lip to restrain himself. Baekhyun traces the movement with his eyes. “Well, I don’t think I ever told you my full name either. I’m Park Chanyeol. Pleased to make your acquaintance. By the way, do you happen to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Byun Baekhyun?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Park Chanyeol. Even that one new syllable fits in perfectly with the portrait Baekhyun has pictured in his mind, the portrait of Chanyeol, strong and sturdy but smooth and silky, soft. Shiny and waxy as the surface of a green leaf in spring, bursting out of the snow alongside flowers on the trees, not as striking but stronger, more supportive, sweeter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But who’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>the</span>
  </em>
  <span> Byun Baekhyun? Chanyeol already knows he’s held exhibits, and he doesn’t know any other Byun Baekhyun’s in photography. Still, “I’m just Byun Baekhyun.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The conversation seems to be ending. Baekhyun doesn’t want to leave. Chanyeol is comfortable, a warm embrace, a soft blanket, a fluffy pillow. A stark contrast to Baekhyun’s pain and past, shards of glass and broken lamps, falling lights. Chanyeol is safety, far away from the demons on the floor of Baekhyun’s apartment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They go to buy ice cream, Baekhyun licking his strawberry scoop as he turns to see Chanyeol holding—nothing?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, I left my wallet at home. I don’t want to make you pay for my things, sorry.” Chanyeol looks at him for a second to give puppy eyes that rival Baekhyun’s own before he starts walking. “Come on, we have a lot to do.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What, we’re doing it all with my wallet?!”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>They end up in an old bookstore, admiring all the books but buying none. It’s filled with overstuffed couches and armchairs, and the elderly woman at the counter brings out hot chocolate, marshmallows, and a gentle reminder not to drink it near the books. Baekhyun accepts his mug with glee, dumping in marshmallows and holding it up to his lips to blow on it. Chanyeol laughs at him and reminds him not to drink it too quickly, but Baekhyun notices the lack of a mug in his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Why won’t Chanyeol eat anything? Baekhyun doesn’t want to make him feel uncomfortable so he doesn’t ask, but speculation and conspiracy runs rampant in his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If not for the fact that he’s standing in sunlight even at this very moment, Baekhyun would almost believe Chanyeol to be a “...vampire!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sorry?” Chanyeol looks at him, curious, from where he had been looking out the window.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun flushes. “N-Nothing. Do you want any hot chocolate?” Looking up at Chanyeol’s face, Baekhyun realizes how much taller he is than Baekhyun. And he breaks out into a smile, bringing Baekhyun’s attention to his deep dimple, making Baekhyun want to reach up and poke it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He nearly does, standing up in front of Chanyeol and lifting his hand before he realizes the absurdity and sits back down, setting the hot chocolate on the table.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” Baekhyun begins, “where should we go next?”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s when Baekhyun sees it. Before Chanyeol has a chance to respond, the rickety old TV in the corner of the shop spews out choppy footage of a reporter talking, and the sound travels to Baekhyun’s ears: “...young boy...suicided……bridge…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The illusion is broken. Memories of the events that transpired less than ago flood back into his mind, too vivid to be just memories, no, he must be experiencing it firsthand. Baekhyun can’t breathe anymore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol hears it too and tries to say something, but Baekhyun waves him off and gestures to himself. He needs to say something.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, I—” Baekhyun is shivering despite the warm summer air penetrating through the walls of the bookstore. “I’m supposed to be dead. I don’t know how you saved me, or why you saved me, but I’m supposed to be fucking dead.” He’s rocking back and forth, struggling to keep his voice at a low volume.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol stands next to Baekhyun, reaching out for his arms but not touching yet. “I know, Baekhyun, just please, calm down, okay? Breathe in with—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, you don’t understand, I can’t stop thinking that I should be dead but I’m not, and—and if I died I wouldn’t have met you. God, Chanyeol, I barely know you and I can’t lose you already. What if that day was actually tomorrow? What if one of us dies tomorrow? Chanyeol, I don’t—I don’t want to die now, Chanyeol, please. I can’t. Not anymore, I can’t—” People are staring at him, ignoring Chanyeol once again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun. Look at me.” Chanyeol crouches in front of Baekhyun’s chair, in reach but not reaching. “You’re not going to die tomorrow, okay? We have time to learn about each other. We can have lifetimes together if you choose, just please don’t worry about it. It’ll all be okay, Baekhyun. Trust me.” Despite his soothing words, Chanyeol looks uneasy, and Baekhyun’s fingers itch to touch him, to make sure he’s real and prove it to the people staring as if Chanyeol isn’t there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun takes a few deep breaths. “Chanyeol?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you really real?” He feels like a child, asking his imaginary friend whether he’s real or not and expecting a beautiful lie.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol gives him what he needs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the people keep staring, even as Baekhyun relaxes for a moment. Someone points and whispers. Someone else walks by, looking back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun’s fingers twitch. Chanyeol is still within reach. He must be real. Baekhyun has touched him before, held him. Why does he need to do it now?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Because—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Before his thought is completed, Baekhyun reaches out to cup Chanyeol’s face. His fingers pass straight through, as though Chanyeol were a hologram. A ghost. A hallucination.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—he was never real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol looks shocked, scared even. Yet Baekhyun feels nothing but mirth, laughter bubbling up his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His words are interspersed with hysterical giggles. “I knew…you weren’t…fucking…real.” His eyes are teary, his voice rising in volume. Even more faces turn toward him, more fingers pointing, more whispered words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Chanyeol snaps to and tries to pull Baekhyun up, failing as his hand passes through Baekhyun’s elbow and the smaller’s tears pour down, a star’s precious gems wasted as they soak into his shirt and the carpeted floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Somehow he instructs Baekhyun to leave the bookstore and head back to the bridge, and somehow Baekhyun listens and follows. Chanyeol, or rather, his hallucination, is with him the whole way.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They arrive at that spot on the bridge and stand looking out over the water. Baekhyun giggles once more, his voice slightly raspy. “So what are you, then? A hallucination? My subconsciousness telling me it’s time? Why did you play with me like this? You could have let me die, instead of giving me so much more to live for in just a few hours…” He knows he’s leaning too far over the railing, enough for his feet to lift off the ground, enough that he feels himself begin to slip off the other side.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But then, just as they did before, strong arms pull Baekhyun back into a warm chest smelling faintly of cedar and a fresh breeze. Chanyeol spins him around one last time, and as Baekhyun looks through the tears into his worried face, he thinks that even the dirt on the ground beneath him is enough. Because unlike the falling tear of a star, unlike the falling leaf of a tree, the ground is always there.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol pulls him in tighter for a warm hug, tucking Baekhyun’s head under his chin and squeezing him tightly, almost to the point of pain. He’s too warm to be a hallucination. Baekhyun can’t breathe beyond the sobs wracking through his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pulls away slightly from Chanyeol to stare into his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What.” Baekhyun punches Chanyeol’s chest lightly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are.” Another hit, harder this time. Chanyeol winces slightly, but doesn’t speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You.” Baekhyun falls forward, into Chanyeol’s warm embrace, dissolving into only his tears and fears.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he stiffens again after just a few seconds of warmth (and safety.)</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you real or are you just a figment of my imagination? Chanyeol, please just answer me. Don’t—please don't hug me. Not until you’ve told me.” Baekhyun steps back again, bracing himself against the railing. The wind bites at him again, a menacing monster whipping past him and clawing at his face.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol lets him go only to bring his hands up, running them through his hair as he shifts his weight between his feet. “God, Baekhyun, please don’t make me—”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, tell me now. If I’m imagining you, I should be a-able to control you too, r-right?” Baekhyun shivers. “Then I, I order you to tell me. Just do it. Please.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun knows he’s won when Chanyeol sighs deeply, dropping his head into his hands for a long moment.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Suddenly Chanyeol jumps up to sit on the railing next to Baekhyun. “Well, get comfortable. Do you have any tissues? This isn’t a happy story.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>APRIL 1980</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Construction of a new bridge on top of Jamsu Bridge continues as planned.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Park Chanyeol sips water at the university cafeteria, reading headlines from last week’s newspaper. He feels the curious eyes of the staff on him, wondering what a bright young student is doing inside the dreadful building on such a sunny day.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo left town last week. The paper mentions tensions in Gwangju. Students protesting the martial law.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They want democracy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo came back from Busan after the president’s assassination and Chanyeol thought maybe they could live peacefully again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But now he’s in Gwangju and Chanyeol is left waiting once more.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>MAY 1980</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol sips his water as he stares out one of the few cafeteria windows. The newspaper rests on the table before him. In the corner of his eye, he sees the headlines.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Police fire upon student protestors in Gwangju.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thousands injured, hundreds dead in Gwangju protests.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cafeteria staff watches the tears slip down this odd student’s face.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>JULY 1982</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol stands on Banpo Bridge. It’s filled with curious citizens with no other way to pass their time than to look at the newly finished double bridge. It’s plain. Boring. In a few weeks, nobody will care for it. The only sounds upon it will be the roar of engines and honking and shouting from raging drivers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But for now, Chanyeol hears the murmur of pedestrians, the calls of shop owners and the responses of shoppers. The sun beats upon his back and the summer air brings fluttering birds and buzzing crickets. Chanyeol is almost at peace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He understands now, what Kyungsoo felt as he stood up for his rights. He feels anger toward the president, the government, the people who walk by in ignorance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he will never understand how Kyungsoo used those feelings for good.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At night, the bridge is empty. The drunken drivers who come out to Seoul in the latest hours drive without knowledge of the new bridge, and the smart fools who fear the dark only drive on the brightest bridges.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol stands alone now. The shops are closed, curfew set.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He waits now. Waits for someone. Anyone.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He climbs now. Over the railing, clinging to it desperately even as his mind is set in its intentions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lets go now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He falls now.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He wakes up now. He’s back at the bridge.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun feels surprisingly calm. He knows his country’s history. He understands what happened. And what will happen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows what he needs to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>By now, Chanyeol won’t look at him anymore, instead pointing out the fountains on the side of the bridge and how beautiful they are, how many people come to visit just because of them.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, I-“ Baekhyun’s voice catches as his throat closes up. “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now Chanyeol turns to look at him, his eyes red and starting to puff. “Why are you sorry? This isn’t your fault, Baekhyun. I’m telling you, we can make it work. Please, just-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol. I have to go back.” Baekhyun takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I just can’t get too attached right now, not to a fucking...ghost, or whatever you are.” Maybe he’s not as calm as he thought.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, Baekhyun, please, we can still make it work. I’m tangible here, right? You can see me, you can touch me, you can’t leave me, Baekhyun, please. It’s been so long, Baekhyun, so so long.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun turns and walks away before he can change his mind. He hears Chanyeol shouting and pedestrians whispering, people smiling now that the crazy boy is walking away. A mother pulls her boy away from Baekhyun as he looks ahead. He feels the boy’s eyes on him for a few seconds before he rounds the corner of the bridge and breaks out into a run.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol can’t breathe. To be fair, he hasn’t been able to “breathe” for almost 30 years. But, despite the loneliness, some form of twisted life has always coursed through him. A dark life, a fake life, a dead life but life nonetheless. With Baekhyun, he felt the closest to truly alive he’d ever been. Close enough to touch. To breathe. He breathed in Baekhyun, his scent, his feelings, his hidden vivacity. In just a few days, Baekhyun became more than a drug. Baekhyun became his oxygen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And now...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol can’t breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The cars honking behind him are loud. Far too loud. He just wants some peace and quiet for the first time since the fountains were added. Tourists, traffic, families taking walks, drunk men, lonely lonely lonely people are always here. It was bearable before, but now, with his life ripped away from him, Chanyeol wants silence.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>He was always seen as a quiet boy, at least when he was alive. He and Kyungsoo were an odd pair of friends, both shy and quiet in public. Neither were really quiet, though. Their inner voices were roused by different circumstances.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol was comfortable at home, alone with Kyungsoo, playing games in his room, listening to music, alone with Kyungsoo, alone with Kyungsoo, with Kyungsoo.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Kyungsoo was comfortable at protests, risking his life, away from Chanyeol, chanting, holding up signs, making a difference, away from Chanyeol, away, away, away from Chanyeol.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol was never a quiet boy. Maybe a repressed boy, maybe a lost boy, maybe a boy who just wanted his friend to be safe at home, playing games with him. But never a quiet boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But after he died, Chanyeol became a quiet boy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun brought the voice out of him, so quickly, in seconds rather than the years of learning Kyungsoo. Chanyeol has lost his life, his voice, his drug, his everything.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He will do whatever it takes to get him back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But first...silence.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s rather interesting how the only path to silence is more noise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Although the screams and sirens irritate Chanyeol’s ears, nothing is worse than honks and shouts, the call and response of vendors and shoppers, the hushed whispers and scorning laughs of judging pedestrians.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nobody is dead, of course. Baekhyun wouldn’t want to come back to a murderer. Murder is chaos which never ends. Chanyeol is merely inflicting injuries, crashes, minor wounds which will fade with time. This is the chaos that gives way to peace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And with peace, Chanyeol will be able to bring Baekhyun back.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol watches the police arrive, listens to the victims screaming about ghosts, smells the smoke and gasoline. Somewhere among the sirens he hears a reporter, catches a glimpse of a camera. For now, there’s only one news van, a young reporter reporting traffic incidents. But soon, there will be more, when one crash becomes two, three, four, five, crash after crash, scream after scream, day after day. Soon, everyone will know of the ghost on the bridge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everyone will speak to the police in whimpers and cries, telling them of the ghost in their vision, the man in the road whom they had swerved to avoid. They won’t believe the first person, nor the second, but crash after crash, scream after scream, day after day, they will understand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Reporters will have a field day. The young woman here today, new to the business, will be famed among her colleagues as the first to report the ghost haunting the bridge. Breaking news every day, accounts matching, conspiracy theories, there’s always a ghost, a ghost, a ghost haunting the bridge. Sympathetic couples will romanticize the concept, a lonely ghost, a ghost who lost his love, will come to lay roses at the bridge. The victims will be drawn back, hoping to see the ghost again if only to prove their claims.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The bridge will become infamous, deserted of cars, all but the most daring and headstrong will wake up earlier, take the longer route, be late to work. And, soon, even those who dare to deny the stories of a ghost will see him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And one day, Baekhyun will understand. Baekhyun will come back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Soon.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Just a week ago, Baekhyun couldn’t leave his apartment. Now, he can’t stay in it. Everywhere he looks, he thinks of home, of bartenders and ice cream, of dreams of hugs, of leaves falling, cedar trees, of jumps and bridges, of newspapers, of tears, of protests and politics, the pictures on his wall long ripped down but memories remaining in their place. Chanyeol never came to his home, his home of years, but his words penetrate Baekhyun’s skull and crawl over his surroundings, a thick fog of promises and laughs and lies and truths and life and death.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There’s no escaping it, not when the walls around him laugh with a deep voice and a rumbling chest, when the floor below him is covered in glass which feels less like glass and more like leaves, when the air around him smells not of vodka but of crisp cedar, when his blankets are not blankets but a warm, soft hug, when the shower pours out not water but whispered words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>How can someone he just met take over his entire being? How can someone who told him lies and never asked questions become his only thought? How can someone so insignificant be so powerful? There’s no escaping it, but Baekhyun will always run away.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun clenches his camera, one of his few remaining possessions, tightly enough for his knuckles to turn white. There are too many people in this area of the park, too many eyes, too many words. He needs to find somewhere quieter, somewhere with nature. Baekhyun was originally a landscape photographer; though he had tried photographing humans, the feeling was always off. But once he met his muse, the pictures flowed easier—not </span>
  <em>
    <span>easily</span>
  </em>
  <span>, more like blood than water, tracing its own path, sometimes clotting and becoming ruined, but flowing nonetheless. Now, he returns to nature.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe, deep inside, or perhaps just below the surface, he has another muse. But Baekhyun is not hasty. Not anymore. He’s starting over from the very beginning.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>After a few turns down a path winding through the trees, Baekhyun finds himself in a small clearing, far away from the mothers and children in the center of the park. Leaves rustle behind him and he turns around, raising the camera to his eyes just in time to capture a squirrel right before it dives into the depths of a bushy tree. Looking closer, Baekhyun realizes the tree is a cedar, a white cedar. The needle-like leaves where the squirrel disappeared shake slightly again, some of the brown ones falling into the pile below the tree.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun raises the camera once again, this time to photograph the tree itself. One picture, for one person. He impulsively grabs a single leaf from the pile, a freshly fallen green one lying atop the dead. It goes in his pocket, for safekeeping or to be forgotten.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Next, Baekhyun turns to the sky. The sun is bright today, not a single cloud in sight. With the camera pointing up, the screen is occupied by the lens flare. No stars. Baekhyun’s tears are the only tears that fall.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The bridge is rather empty now. Chanyeol is free to walk up and down the sidewalk without the stupid pedestrians getting in his way. No families, no joggers, no young couples pushing strollers. Just peace and quiet, the occasional car speeding through in a futile attempt to avoid the ghost. Of course, the businesses around the bridge are also suffering. No one wants to eat ice cream while staring into Chanyeol’s empty eyes. No one, except Baekhyun.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol hates the sight of the filthy ice cream shop, its owner coming out to beg for customers. Pathetic. And the bookstore, nearly abandoned. Someone hurries in every once in a while, rushing out with a book tucked under their arm and glancing toward the bridge. Chanyeol always looks back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thinks he could go for some ice cream.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>The ice cream shop owner is a good man. At least, he thinks he’s a good man. Working hard, making ice cream just to put a smile on someone’s face. Someone different every day. For every grumpy customer, there are a hundred happy ones. Their smiles make him happy too. A simple life for a simple man, he tells his customers. Just a simple man, selling ice cream for a living, going home to kiss his wife and tuck his daughter in bed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No one comes to the ice cream shop. Not anymore. His wife works longer, his daughter cries herself to sleep. He begs for customers, but no one is on the street to listen.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tomorrow, he’ll shut down the shop. His nephew was going to come in a work for him for a few weeks, but he’s not coming now. Surely not.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The owner is jarred out of his thoughts when he sees someone at the counter. The bell never rang.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Those empty eyes will haunt him forever.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun can’t sleep. He’s plagued by nightmares of death and destruction, of shrill screams and wailing sirens. More than the sights and sounds of massacre, the glimpses Baekhyun catches of his face and the faint mumbles of his voice keep Baekhyun on edge, tossing and turning on the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come back.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wakes up to darkness, sometime in the middle of the night. His back still aches from sleeping on the floor, but it won’t matter in the long run. The glass is gone from the floor, hastily sweeped away when Baekhyun had nothing else to do and nowhere to sleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He rises to his feet, placing his hands flat on the ground and pushing his weight upwards. Before Chanyeol, that would have resulted in countless cuts on his hands and feet. Now, Baekhyun only frowns as he stretches his sore back before stumbling to the door. His phone is lying on the kitchen counter, one of his last remaining possessions on his last remaining tabletop. He hasn’t charged it in days, but he also hasn’t used it in days, so it has enough battery.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That dream—that nightmare put a bad taste in Baekhyun’s and a worse feeling in his mind. He’s just a little worried that it wasn’t a dream. That he’ll never escape this destruction. He couldn’t escape it before, couldn’t stop it from hurting the people he loved. Deep inside, Baekhyun knows it’s the same.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But this time, the person he loves is the one hurting others.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Baekhyun arrives at the bridge, he sees Chanyeol waiting for him. There’s no one else on the bridge, not even cars driving by. It’s strange, but Baekhyun is too focused on Chanyeol to care. He sees him from afar, sitting on the railing with his legs dangling over the edge. Baekhyun had been dragging his feet, reluctant to face him again, but seeing Chanyeol’s figure almost crumpled over the railing made him break out into a run, almost sprinting before he remembered Chanyeol can’t die again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Can ghosts die?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun would like to think so, but as he gets closer, the longing in Chanyeol’s eyes as he stares at the river far below him becomes too clear to ignore.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol.” Baekhyun doesn’t know what to do with his hands as he stares at the ghost’s unmoving back. He puts them in his pockets, unconsciously searching for something in the depths of his jeans to occupy his nervous fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Baekhyun.” Chanyeol doesn’t turn around, still looking down into the water. He’s holding something, but Baekhyun can’t see what exactly it is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Chanyeol, I’m—“ Baekhyun is interrupted when Chanyeol throws the object over his shoulder, and Baekhyun watches a strawberry ice cream cone land before his feet, flinching at the spray of cold ice cream hitting his ankles. He looks down at the ice cream, wondering what Chanyeol meant by throwing it and debating whether or not to pick it up, when movement in front of him catches his eye again.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun is alone on the bridge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol jumped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t exactly jump, per se. He relaxed, stopped trying to hold himself up, let his body tumble off the railing and through the air, into the waves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun rushes to the railing too late, looking over for a body and finding nothing but inky waters. He realizes now, that this is the place where Chanyeol first died. This is the place where Chanyeol is tangible. This is the place where Baekhyun could have touched him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This is the only place where Baekhyun could have saved him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hand is still in his pocket, and his fingers close around something. Baekhyun pulls out the cedar sprig he had picked up from the ground, the needles already brown and dead. It crumples in his fist, the weak scent of cedar growing slightly stronger.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Your turn.” The voice comes from behind, and Baekhyun whirls around to bury himself in that warm chest once more, to envelope himself in comfort just one more time. Chanyeol holds him too, gently squeezing his shoulders and whispering sweet nothings into his hair.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Baekhyun wants to stay there, but Chanyeol pushes him away gently. “We have forever, Baekhyun.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>“Join me, and you’ll never have to leave.”</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>∆—∆—∆</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Chanyeol stands at the bridge, staring at the sunset over the water. He hears a splash far below him, and the smile on his face grows at the sound.  Soon, he knows, Baekhyun will be back.</span>
</p>
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